


A Little House, Together

by harble



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Death, Blow Jobs, CUE HOUSEBUILDING THEME, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Epilogue, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Rare Pairings, Smarston, Smut, Spoilers, fast burn i guess, is here now, not slow burn?, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harble/pseuds/harble
Summary: “Did you — well, did you want to at all?”A few weeks before, Charles would have never asked that sort of question. Of anyone, really. Now, though… There was something about sweating everyday, about being stranded in flat country with friends he thought long gone. It had loosened his tongue, loosened the knot in his chest a bit as well.John shook his head in response, mouth curling up at one side.“I always use that excuse because I always mean it.” He scratched at his neck. “Except now I ain’t so sure I’ve got a wife.”Charles expected John to look sad at that, but that half-smile, boyish and teasing, didn’t drop.----Set in the epilogue, centered around John and Charles' relationship. Enjoy!





	1. A FIRE

A fire was burning at Beecher’s Hope a few short feet away from the skeleton frame of John’s partially-built house. Charles, in spite of himself, laughed along to a story as John told it in a weary, punch-drunk drawl.

“So there I am, half covered in — I don’t even know what it was — horse juice? And the lady looks me up and down —” John gave Charles a similar look, as if to demonstrate, then took a generous swig of beer before continuing, “— and invites me over to the house. You know, for a _visit._ ”

At this, John leaned in with raised eyebrows, so that Charles couldn’t help but get the idea. He cracked a smile in response.

“So, John, what did you say? To this woman?”

“What I always do.” John smiled, and the light from the fire glinted in his eyes. “Something about ‘my wife’ and this and that. And then she got real embarrassed-like and left.”

Charles let out a short laugh. It was a funny picture - John Marston birthing a foal for the first time in his life and then getting propositioned by his boss’ wife.

“I ain’t never experienced the like.”

“Did you — well, did you want to at all?”

A few weeks before, Charles would have never asked that sort of question. Of anyone, really. Now, though… There was something about sweating everyday, about being stranded in flat country with friends he thought long gone. It had loosened his tongue, loosened the knot in his chest a bit as well.

John shook his head in response, mouth curling up at one side.

“I always use that excuse because I always mean it.” He scratched at his neck. “Except now I ain’t so sure I’ve got a wife.”

Charles expected John to look sad at that, but that half-smile, boyish and teasing, didn’t drop.

“And after Abigail left, did that woman ever try again?”

“No. I think I really mortified her.” John paused to consider, then continued, “I always wonder if she was doin’ the same to the other boys. There weren’t too many of us… I wonder if they were all gettin’ regular invitations up to the big house while Mr. Geddes was away.”

He was almost talking to himself, gazing into the fire. Every time Charles thought he knew what John Marston was thinking, he was wrong.

“I’d guess not.” Charles lowered his voice to a rumble. “Not unless them other boys looked how you do.”

Charles watched the meaning land on John out of the corner of his eye, watched him smile a little.

“Well —" John’s voice cracked over the word “— like I was sayin’, I was a lousy ranch hand.”

Charles gave John a deadpan look. “Coulda’ been worse. Woulda’ been lousier if you’d fucked his wife.”

John laughed at that, really laughed. It made Charles feel lighter just to see his shoulders heave and his hat fall off as he threw his head back.

“I guess you’re right, Charles.” He giggled again. “Never thought of it that way.”

“Then you haven’t been thinkin’ too hard.” Charles shifted closer to him on the log and leaned over the back to grab John’s hat off the ground.

“Like usual, I guess.” 

They were close now, and leaning closer. Charles let his arm brush against John’s.

“So, what are you gonna do next time, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“What will you do the next time some lusty rancher’s wife asks you to pay a visit?”

John laughed again. “Lucky for me, there ain't any ranchers’ wives way out here, Charles, lusty or otherwise.”

Charles shook his head at him, and they both laughed a little more. A calm sort of silence fell; cicadas hummed in the trees around them.

“We’re almost done with the house.” Charles spoke at a whisper and looked over at the frame. They had started adding the first wall boards that day.

“Maybe another week.” John nudged at Charles with his shoulder. “It’d be less if I worked like you do. Enough for three men, I’d say.”

Charles fingered at John’s hat in his lap. It was Arthur’s favorite one, more faded than he remembered it. The old, frayed cord still hung off the back.

“Someone’s gotta make up for Uncle.”

They both took another few sips of beer.

“What am I gonna do once it’s finished?”

“I don’t know, John.” Their eyes met. “Let’s just figure out the roof first.”

Charles reached up to grab John’s shoulder and, with his other hand, put Arthur’s hat back on his head a little roughly.

All at once, John’s face turned to stone. He stood up and looked at the ground, the brim of the hat hiding his expression. 

“I, uh,” he paused to swallow before adding, “I’m going to turn in.”

And he walked away into the night, leaving his half-empty beer behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story feels self-indulgent and I have very little clue if it makes much sense. It's going to be ~17,000 words, to give y'all an idea. Thanks for reading!


	2. SOME LOGS

It wasn’t that John reminded him of Arthur, not really.

The two were different enough, in temperament and character. A decade had certainly smoothed down some of John’s rough edges, but he was still the moody hot head Charles had met (and mostly disliked) all those years before. And he would certainly never possess much of Arthur’s solemnity, or his patience, or his curiosity.

And yet...

Maybe Charles had overheard John talk to his horse in the same reverent tones Arthur used to save for his own mares.

Maybe, every so often, words slipped out of John’s mouth that had no business being there. Once, while plotting out the strategy for a job, Arthur had used the word “phalanx” - Charles would never forget the dumb look on Bill’s face, or the way Arthur’s cheeks turned pink from misplaced embarrassment. It was that way with Marston, sometimes. He used words what clearly came out of a book on Roman history, or one of Dutch’s sermons on the spirit of America. Words like  _ mortified,  _ or _ beleaguered,  _ or _ genuflect. _

And maybe, sometimes, John Marston sat on a newly-built fence and just watched Charles chop wood from under the brim of his hat. It was impossible for Charles to see that and not to think of how he and Arthur got familiar at first - Arthur watching him do chores around camp, following, listening, Charles deflecting, prompting, and listening in turn.

The axe hit the ground with a satisfying  _ thwack _ , and another log split in two. Charles cleared the pieces with his foot, then dropped another log down. He wiped sweat from his brow, readied the axe, and brought it down again, throwing his weight behind the handle.

They had halted building for a quick rest, and he had no audience - not yet, anyway.

Charles was replaying the night before in his mind, over and over again. Trying to figure out what had happened there at the end, what he’d done to make John clam up so completely.

It’d been a balancing act, ever since he’d arrived there - well, ever since John and Uncle had fetched him from the blackest pit in Saint Denis, which now stood out in his mind as one of the luckiest coincidences in his life. He wasn’t a man happy accidents usually happened to.

He’d arrived at the ranch and gotten his bearings. It turned out, Uncle was much the same wheedling scammer he’d known from before. John, however, seemed changed. He was thinner than ever, like he hadn’t been eating much, and disarmingly open in a way Charles didn’t remember from way back.

Or maybe back then he hadn’t been paying proper attention.

_ Thwack. _

Charles had settled into life there quickly. He hadn’t run with anybody in years - but they weren’t exactly running, him and Uncle and John. They were sitting, staying, building something close to a normal life.

And before he knew it, Charles was thinking of his bedroll there under the stars as  home , of Uncle as his brother to tolerate and protect, of John as… well, as something else entirely.

_ Thwack _ . More logs for their bonfires, his favorite time of day at Beecher’s hope.

The first time it had happened - the first time he’d looked at John and seen a flash of  _ him _ , of Arthur - was after their run in with the Skinners, when they’d bought the supplies for the house. John’d found that poor, stupid bastard stuck to a tree with a blade through his skull. Charles couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised or horrified; he’d slung that man over his shoulder, felt the stranger’s head leaking, sticky and warm and wet, onto his back.

John, though, didn’t just seem upset, he seemed angry. Angry that men could have turned so horrible.

No matter how much killing he did, justified or otherwise, John Marston still wasn’t a killer.

“Charles?”

He gave an almighty jump and whipped around to see John standing there, looking at him. John had taken his shirt off that day in the heat and was just left in suspenders, pants, and a hat, looking very much like a hillbilly, as Charles hadn’t hesitated tease him about earlier.

“You’re supposed to be taking a break from the house.”

“I am.” Charles motioned to the pile of split logs at his feet.

“No, you’re supposed to be having a rest. You know, stop working for a while.” John smiled as he said it.

It was midday, and the heat was almost intolerable. But it wasn’t really in Charles’ nature to take a break.

And with John standing there, sweating and smiling fondly at him, Charles was forcibly reminded of his  other  problem, the one that had nothing (very little? everything?) to do with Arthur.

They were lonely, and alone, except for each other.

Lonely and alone.

“Fine, John. I’ll stop for a bit.”

John reached out and clapped him on the back.

“Good man. Let’s go sit in the shade.”

Charles left the axe propped against the wood pile, then walked to follow John. They crouched beneath a tree. The shade didn’t provide much protection from the sweltering heat.

“Where’s Uncle?”

John pressed his lips together, clearly disapproving. “He’s taking a little nap.”

“He must sleep half the day.”

“He’s like Jack when he were little. Sixteen hours a day, at least.”

John was looking at the house, and Charles was looking at John’s profile. Wondering, wondering.

What had he done last night to make him leave so suddenly?

“Sorry I went odd last night.” He paused and licked his lips. “I got to thinkin’ about things.”

John kept looking at the house. Charles stayed quiet.

“I got to thinkin’ about, well, you know. About Arthur. And the gang. And all that. I think about it more often than ever now. I ain’t never let it all go, I don’t think.”

There it was - that openness. Disarming and strange, in a man who had been so often been hurt, and had so often done the hurting.

“‘S okay, John.” They smiled at each other. “I think about it now as well. I think it’s just being around you and Uncle again.”

“Yeah.” John nodded and leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. He seemed to steel himself. “You remind me of him, sometimes. Of Arthur.”

Charles took care to keep his face passive.

“What do you mean, John?”

“You’re like him somehow. I don’t know. Big and quiet and hard to read.” John laughed nervously. “I don’t... I know I ain’t makin’ no sense. Never mind me.”

Charles knew what he should say.

_ You remind me of him, too. _

_ I haven’t let it go either. _

_ I’m glad I’m here. _

But it felt like a chasm yawning out below him. If he jumped, where would he land? Where was the bottom?

“Thanks for telling me that, John.”

John let his head roll to the side. He leaned his forehead ever-so-slightly into Charles’ shoulder and held it there for a second. Next moment, he was on his feet.

“I guess we should get back to it, huh?” Charles gave him a short nod. “I’m going to go find that freeloader.”


	3. A SHANTY

The house was done, done, done. They had finished it the day before, but still spent the night outside. John seemed to be afraid of crossing the threshold now that it was a proper house rather than a pile of boards.

All three of them had collapsed after John laid the last shingle; they were too exhausted and boneless to wash, to celebrate, to even sit around the fire and shoot the breeze.

So Charles woke up that next morning dirty and ready for a good scrub. The house was the first thing he saw when he cracked his eyes. It was beautiful, in a mundane sort of way. He was happy for John, but it felt serious, dangerous, to tie yourself to a place like that. The last time Charles had a house, he had a father as well. Both turned out to be very easy to lose.

He sat up and stretched. He was sore from neck to calf. John was still asleep a few feet from him, sprawled on the top of his bedroll with a dirty union suit on, snoring.

“John.” He poked him in the ribs with his foot. “John, wake up.”

He stood, stretched some more, then kicked Uncle with significantly more force than he had John.

“You too.”

They groaned in unison. John waved a hand at him that said  _ go the fuck away. _

“Come on, boys, face the day. Let’s go wash up, then we can examine the fruits of our labor.”

Charles eventually succeeded in dragging the pair of them over the hill to the stream. He thought he might have to throw Marston in, but John stripped willingly enough and charged into the chilly water until he was waist-deep.

They threw their only bar of soap around, laughing and joking as they washed. Uncle and John even scratched out a song between them, something silly about the open seas. Charles didn’t know the tune, but he laughed along.

They loped back to Beecher’s Hope scrubbed and cheery. All three of them stopped as they drew near to the house.

John took a breath, then mounted the stairs.

“I guess it’s time.”

Uncle hurried past him and opened the door.

“Home sweet home, Johnny.” He flashed a crooked grin, then disappeared inside. John turned to look at Charles, as if waiting.

“You go ahead. I’m going to take a walk.”

John nodded and ducked through the door.

Something was twisting around in Charles’ chest like fabric caught in a strong wind. The night before, as they’d finished, John turned to Charles and said it was his home too for as long as he stuck around.

John knew, like Charles did, that he would be moving on eventually. Maybe soon. Maybe now.

Charles kicked up dust with his foot as he walked toward his bedroll and the small pack containing every one of his worldly possessions. He crouched and drew out a small wooden comb to drag through his wet hair.

They’d still need him. There was a barn to put up, pumps to install, a life to make. Not Charles’ type of life, of course, but a good one. One John could have now; one that, in Charles’ estimation, John deserved.

But when Charles opened his bag, saw his small collection of clothes, beads from his mother, weapons from his father - when he saw it all, compared it to the size, the weight of that house he’d just put up - it made him want to saddle up and ride, right then, right at that moment.

All this, it wasn’t for him.

He strapped his shotgun to his thigh, rolled up his bed, shouldered his bag, and stood up in time to see John approaching. He eyed Charles suspiciously.

“You’re moving that into the house?”

He was asking a different question, and Charles didn’t miss the worry in his voice. He knew he should be honest to pay John back for all his honesty over the past month. A lie fell out instead.

“Yeah, John. I was.”

John nodded.

“Well wait a minute, because I was thinking maybe we could run one more errand.”

Charles watched him, waiting.

“Do you think you’d be willing to take me to see his grave?”

Whatever Charles was expecting, it wasn’t that. John Marston continued to surprise. Charles thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah, John. We can make that trip. Then you can come back and start.”

John’s shoulders relaxed at that.

“Yeah. I’ll come back, and make a new start of it.”

Charles nodded again. “After.”

“After.”


	4. THE FIRST LEG

They left later that same day and stopped in Blackwater before turning North. John posted a letter in town. Charles didn’t ask who it was to, didn’t have to. He figured John was ready for Abigail and Jack to come home - ready to see if they would, at least. 

They bought some supplies at the store then set out, figuring they could make Rigg’s Station by nightfall, even leaving late in the day as they were.

They’d plotted an easy course together back at Beecher’s, after deciding to go. They would cross the Dakota past Riggs, ride through Valentine, and head into Cumberland Forest. They’d have to stop for the night somewhere around there, then continue on into Ambarino and the grave the next day. The journey back wouldn’t be any longer. Three or four days total, at most.

Charles was surprised when John told Uncle they’d be gone a week, but he didn’t let on or even ask John about it after Beecher’s shrank out view behind them.

Riding with John was uncomplicated; he didn’t seem too fussed with keeping up a conversation. Charles appreciated that John must’ve learned to keep his mouth shut somewhere in the time between 1899 and his purchase of Beecher’s, but all the same it gave Charles entirely too much time alone with his own thoughts.

“We gonna stop?”

They’d passed the station over ten minutes ago. Charles had been busy thinking - about the grave, how it would feel to see it again. He hadn’t been back since he’d buried him. And then once that was accomplished, if they got back in one piece, what would be his new excuse for sticking around? The house was built, the trip would be over. Then what?

“Yeah, John, sorry.” Charles glanced back at him. “Let’s look for a good spot.”

John shifted in his saddle, then mumbled, “Or do you want to keep going? Maybe make it to Horseshoe and camp there instead.”

That wasn’t a surprise to Charles, not really. He’d seen John’s eye linger around Valentine on the map that morning. Charles had been thinking much the same thing, truth be told. He wanted to see it, wanted to see if there were half as many ghosts there as were haunting his mind as of late.

“We got plenty of time, John. Let’s camp here tonight, and we can stop there tomorrow. I’m in no rush.”

Through the falling darkness, Charles saw John’s shoulders sag.

“Okay.”

They quickly made camp in dense trees and ate cold food out of cans. The night was warm enough to sleep without a fire, and they didn’t want to be spotted by travelers on the road.

John was unusually quiet. As Charles was bedding down, he finally spoke.

“I was readin’ his journal today on the ride.”

“You find anything?”

“I was readin’ one of my favorite parts.”

How many times had he read that journal?

John rolled his shoulders and looked a the ground. “It’s about you, actually.”

Charles found John’s eyes through the darkness, reflecting the light from the stars above. It had never really occurred to him, but it struck him then that maybe John already knew quite a bit about him and his secrets. Maybe Arthur had written it all down.

But camp had been so frantic at Beaver’s Hollow. Arthur had been so sick already. Surely not. 

“What does it say?”

“Says you don’t have to think to be good. Says right is deep within you.”

Charles felt his chest grow heavy and tight like it had that morning, when John told Uncle it would be a week before they got back.

Right, deep within.

“Charles?”

“I’m surprised, is all.”

“It was when you two went and found Clemens Point.”

Charles grunted in recognition. That had been quite a day - a good day, for him and for Arthur.

“I agree with him, I think. You seem to know how to act. How to be decent.”

His mouth was dry, suddenly.

“I don’t know about that, John.”

“Well I do.”

Neither spoke while Charles climbed into his bedroll. John stayed sitting up, staring into the darkness.

“John?”

“I ain’t tired. I’ll keep first watch, I guess.”

Charles wanted to say that it made very little sense to keep watch at all, that they’d need to stay rested if they wanted to keep moving at a good pace, but something in John’s face kept him quiet.

“Alright.”

That night, Charles dreamt of a German family, and of a song about the sea.


	5. A SLIGHT DETOUR

Charles woke up the next morning to a hard jab at his cheek.

“Jesus, John. What’s wrong with you?” Charles' voice was rough from sleep, and he curled onto his side and guarded his face against a second attack.

“I ain’t used to waking folks up.” John sounded sheepish. Charles cracked an eye to find John leaning over him, fully dressed and smiling slightly. “You slept a long time.”

“You make me tired.”

John barked out a short laugh.

“Well come on then, sunshine. Time to go.”

Charles rolled over and studied John’s face. He looked eager.

“We still going to Horseshoe?” Charles asked, and John nodded. “It’ll only take a coupla’ hours to get there, you know.”

“I know, but I thought we could go huntin’ or something once we make camp.”

Charles examined the patches of sky that shone through the branches overhead. Seemed like John wanted to take his time in the Heartlands. That suited him well enough.

“Alright, John. Let’s go then.”

The ride that day was easier than the day before. John had a lot to say, which meant Charles didn’t have so much time to think. They talked about Abigail and Jack, about hunting bear, about what Charles had been doing all these years. John wanted to hear all about the fighting ring, and Charles’ time with the tribe. Every time Charles thought it was over, there was another question.

“Well, what made you leave, then?”

“I don’t know, John.” He tried not to sound annoyed. “There were so few of them left. We all just started to scatter. Rains Fall eventually told me to go.”

“You must hate them.”

“Who?”

“The government.”

“No more than you, John Marston.”

“Nah, I think you must hate them more.”

Charles shrugged and shifted in his saddle before admitting, “I don’t feel much of anything towards them.”

“Not even them soldiers?”

“They were all following orders.”

“That ain’t no kind of excuse.”

Charles nodded. He used to think that way, used to think that men were all equally responsible for their own actions. But he knew now there were larger forces at work. One man with a gun didn’t make that much of a difference, no matter which side he was on.

They were quiet after that. Charles could feel John’s eyes on the back of his head. He fell to wondering what John was thinking, what John thought of him.

Before long they were cutting off the main road onto an overgrown path. Charles wondered how many times he’d come up this path with Taima. He still missed her sometimes. They broke into the clearing and dismounted.

It didn’t look like any other misfits had made it their home in the intervening decade. There was debris on the ground - what looked like dross left behind by the gang. John walked out to the edge of the cliff and sat. Charles left John to himself. He set up camp and started the fire.

“I woke you up late. It must already be noon.” John raised his voice so he could be heard across the clearing. Charles smiled, but didn’t respond.

He watched John stand and cross towards him. He was wearing Arthur’s hat again today, and his shirt as well - the blue one with the stripes. It looked nearly worn through, and it hung off John’s frame, making him look smaller and thinner than he actually was. It would have made him look younger as well, if not for the deep, purplish circles under his eyes.

“Let’s go hunt some birds.” John extended his hand to help Charles stand up.

They ended up leaving their horses hitched in the clearing and just walking down to the river. John turned out to be quite as good at shooting birds as he was at shooting anything else; Charles made him stop after he’d killed three large ducks.

John was helpless when it came to dressing them, though; it tested Charles’ patience to see a grown man struggle so much with a carcass.

“You’re telling me you never had to pluck a bird, white boy?”

“Pearson always did it. Or Grimshaw. Or Abigail, I guess.”

Charles gave him a glare to signal his disapproval, then showed him how. They saved some of the feathers for arrows (“D’ya think you could show me how to do that, too?”) and packed a good amount of meat away for cooking back at camp.

By the time they were finished, the summer sun had burned John’s cheeks pink, and Charles was sweaty and covered with blood. He took off his shirt to rinse it quickly in the river and gave himself a few quick splashes as well. John didn’t seem interested in the washing, but Charles suspected it had more to do with the strong current than anything. They set off for camp, Charles with his wet shirt slung over his shoulder.

They were almost back when Charles glanced over and caught John looking at him.

“What?”

“You think you could show me how to fight? You know, like that boxing you did?”

Charles couldn’t help it; he laughed. John looked eager and scared, like a beat dog begging for food.

“Sure, John.”

They crested the hill, and John greeted the horses while Charles put their packs down in the shade. He motioned for John to join him away from the trees.

“It’s just like any other type of fighting, I guess. Just got to watch your footwork, and avoid the hard hits.”

John threw off his gunbelt and shucked his shirt off over his head, then pulled his suspenders back up onto his shoulders.

“I know you make fun of me, Charles, but I don’t know how you can wear your pants like that with nothing holdin’ em’ up. Pants fall clean off of me that way.”

Charles looked down at himself, then over at John, then grinned.

“You’re about as wide as my finger, John.” He held up his little finger to demonstrate. “Gotta gain some weight first.”

John narrowed his eyes and lunged at him. It was the move of a man used to fighting drunks in alleys - all speed, very little finesse. Charles already had his hands up, ready to strike. He ducked to the side, then twisted around and landed an open hand to John’s right side.

There was a resounding smack, but John didn’t protest. He just retreated and mimicked Charles’ stance - hands up, feet apart, weight forward.

“You gotta teach me.” His tone was pleading and whiny, and Charles rolled his eyes in response. John was ready when Charles tried to advance on him; he hopped further back.

“You keep letting me push you back, you’ll fall off the cliff. Then I’ll win.”

John lunged again, but feinted left at the last moment. He managed to get a slap at Charles’ neck, but the contact wasn’t all there.

“You afraid to hit me, John?” Charles let himself smile, then went in for a slap while John was fumbling his footwork. It landed, hard, across the scarred side of his face. This time, John did let out a cry, and a murderous sort of look came into his eye.

Charles expected retaliation, but he didn’t expect John to crouch low and spring straight at him like a wild animal, aiming for his hips. The impact knocked Charles backwards off his feet, and they grappled for a few moments on the ground.

Charles didn’t know which of them started laughing first, he just knew that soon they both were, gasping and breathless, each trying to overpower the other.

Try as he might, though, Charles couldn’t flip John, who (despite being as thin as Charles’ little finger) was plenty strong, especially through the shoulders. John hovered over him for a moment. He had Charle’s wrists pinned on either side of his head.

“Admit it -” he stifled a few more laughs “- I won.”

“I yield.” There was a stupid grin pasted to Charles' face he couldn’t seem to shake.

John rolled sideways onto the ground beside him. They both panted for a moment.

“I don’t think I’ll join the fighting rings anytime soon.”

Charles shook his head a little, then glanced over at John. Half his face was still red from the slap.

“I don’t think I’d bet against you. You’re scrappy.”

“Don’t forget, I’ve seen you fight. I know you were going easy.”

“It is a bit different with fists. And when the other person wouldn’t mind killing you.”

John ran a hand down the side of his face, feeling where Charles hit him. He rolled into a sitting position and studied Charles for a few moments.

“You know, I think that shirt would fit you much better’n it fits me.”

He stood and crossed to his discarded shirt. John approached and sat next to him, closer than Charles was expecting. He took the shirt when John offered it and pulled it on. It was just a little tight on him, especially across the shoulders. John reached out without asking and started to button it, top to bottom.

“Yeah.” John paused to look at the fit and smile. “Yeah, you should keep this.”

Charles closed his eyes and tried not to focus too much on the brush of fingers, or the ache in the very center of his chest. He never had anything of Arthur’s. Whatever small thing this was, it felt like too much. He grabbed John’s wrists to stop him.

“No, John. You keep it.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Charles stopped him.

“How about that bandana he wore all the time? You have that?”

John nodded. “It’s back at Beecher’s.”

“I’d like to have that, if you don’t mind.” John gave him a half smile and a nod, then sprawled unceremoniously back onto the ground beside him.

Charles left the shirt on and laid back down as well. They chatted about the clouds for a while as they floated by. John seemed to think every one looked like a house and took it to be a sign; Charles was less convinced, but listened to John’s chatter anyway. 

The air had that summertime, heady grass scent, and Charles relished being at least a little further north, out of the sweltering pit of the plains. When Charles glanced over at John again, he saw that John was asleep, mouth slightly open. Charles smiled. He needed the rest.

Charles stood up quietly and got to cooking the duck and rolling smokes, humming to himself as he worked. John woke up about an hour later. He threw on a clean shirt from his pack and came and sat with Charles. They ate and joked, sharing Charles’ cigarettes and keeping the mood light.

Back at Beecher’s hope, in the quiet moments of night before he fell asleep, Charles had a thought he used to return to, time and time again. It was deceptively simple - him and John sitting around the campfire, talking and shooting the shit. Uncle asleep a few yards away, snoring. Maybe they were both drinking, buzzed but not sloppy, and maybe John was acting how he was now, at Horseshoe - leaning close, laughing. The night was clear and warm, the moon bright - plenty of light to see by, in case there was anything worth seeing. And the both of them were there, together.

Lonely and alone.

He always felt guilty the next morning after falling into that fantasy. It always felt like shit to see John’s earnest face greeting him in the morning, trusting him like a friend.

“Charles? You okay?”

John’s ragged voice called him back to Horseshoe Overlook.

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking, I guess.”

  
  
“I’m thinking about them, too.” 

Them? 

Oh, them. Another pang of guilt hit Charles hard and low.

“Remember we had that poor bastard tied to that tree?”

“Kieran.”

“What an awful time.”

Charles looked over at him, only to find John looking right back. John shook his head a little, stretched, and sighed.

“I’m glad we’re both alive. Otherwise, who else would believe all that shit we been through?” John leaned forward and to the side a bit as he said it, and slowly, gently, pressed his forehead into Charles’ shoulder, like he had back at the ranch. But this time, he didn’t stand - didn’t stop.

The hope that blossomed in Charles’ chest was almost intolerable, almost painful. His shoulder was on fire; his mind was racing.

“I’m tired, John.”

“Me too. All the time these days.”

“It might help if you slept,” Charles murmured. He couldn’t stop the fondness from creeping into his voice.

John hummed and slid a bit closer. Charles felt John’s hair tickling at his ear. His hand ached; he wanted more than anything to slip it around John’s waist, to see how that might feel.

After a few minutes of them both looking into the fire and not saying much of anything, John stood and plodded over to his bedroll without saying another word.

As Charles bedded down for the night a few minutes later, more than anything he felt embarrassed. He fell asleep, not thinking of a clear moon, not thinking of John, grinning and agreeable. Instead, he just thought one thing, over and over, until he fell into a fitful sleep:

_No more, no more. Enough._


	6. BURNING

Charles woke suddenly and stayed still for a moment, getting his bearings. He had been dreaming of Arthur. Or had it been John? It was still dark; he was flat on his back, and the stars stretched over him, beautiful and clear. He rolled onto his side, looking for John.

There he was, a few short feet away, sitting cross-legged on the end of his bedroll and staring into the fire, which had burnt down to low flames and embers. John must’ve heard Charles move, but he didn’t look over. The fire threw the lines of his face into relief; he looked old - harsh and pinched in a way he didn’t look during the day, under friendlier light.

Charles sat up slowly.

“John?”

“You know I ain’t been sleeping.” He grabbed a handful of grass and threw it into the fire, making it pop and smoke.

“Something on your mind?”

It was just something to say; Charles knew well there was plenty on his mind. Slowly, John turned to look at him.

“Did you know I’m half blind?” Charles just looked back at him, confused. John reached a hand up and indicated the eye nearest Charles. “For as long as I can remember. Must’ve been a fever.”

Without thinking, Charles reached up as well. He dragged the back of his fingers from just under John’s eye, down his cheek.

“Completely?”

John nodded, then looked up at the sky. Charles noticed for the first time how his left eye trailed the right a little as they moved.

“Moon’s almost full,” John said.

Charles went to pull his hand back, but John caught it by the wrist and leaned his face into the open palm. Charles’ eyes slipped closed as a prickling started at the base of his skull and moved downwards along his spine. He curled his fingers into a loose fist and felt dry lips press against his knuckles, careful and slow, one after another. Charles breathed hard out of his nose, and John let his hand drop.

“John.”

“Charles?”

He opened his eyes. John was much closer now, leaning in towards him and studying his face.

“You were going to leave, weren’t you? Back at Beecher’s?”

John’s eyes flashed in the firelight as he said it, and Charles felt like John was looking right through him, like he could see his shiny red guts, his aches and pains, his soul. And then those same eyes flicked down to Charles’ lips, and he saw it - desire, written plain as plain on John’s face. Charles had half a second to realize he’d definitely seen that look on John’s face before, plenty of times, and then John closed the distance between them. John’s kiss was hesitant, but Charles found he didn’t mind. He reached up and gripped the back of John’s head, pulling him in closer.

“Yeah, I was leaving,” Charles murmured into the corner of John’s mouth before kissing him again there, then on his cheek, then his jaw. 

“You fucking bastard.” Charles could hear the smile in John’s voice as he rasped it out, and Charles moved back to kiss him properly again, and push him backwards onto his bedroll. 

Charles raised himself on his knees to look down at John, who was laying down completely, a dizzy look on his face, hair fanned around his head like a halo. Then, a moment later, there was that expression again - a slight smile, a sharp, clever look in his eyes - so clearly wanting him, wanting this. Charles had seen it just the day before, when he caught John looking at him on the way up from the river, and many times before that, at Beecher’s - around the fire, or as they hauled timber or laughed at a stupid joke. He’d been lying to himself, he realized, refusing to see it. Probably too scared to.

What a fool he had been.

He settled over John and pressed his body down into him. The next moment, John was nipping at his mouth, before kissing along his face and beginning to lick at his neck. 

Charles had promised himself years ago that he’d never be any man’s first time again. It wasn’t who he was or what he liked; he didn’t get off on inexperience. But as stubble scratched into his face and neck, and as John started to suck at the soft patch of skin just below his ear, he thought he might have to make an exception.

One of John’s hands was already in Charles’ hair, the other was working at his shirt. They were wasting no time, it seemed. John gripped at his chest and traced down, down.

Charles was shivering now; the soft sucking at his neck and the even softer touches along his stomach were sending his body into what felt like shock. He found John’s mouth again with his own and guided him to open up slowly. John groaned underneath him; Charles heard it, and felt it on his tongue as well.

Of course, there was another reason that Charles didn’t usually spend the night with men like John - men who’d never been with another man. The aftermath was usually more grief than any amount of pleasure was worth.

Charles pulled back and looked at him, furrowing his brow and searching John’s face for something. John responded with a matching, mock-serious look, and then slid his hand down Charles’ stomach and grabbing the bulge in his pants, bold and sure. It made Charles laugh, and made his stomach swoop with something deep and tight. No longer able to control himself, he groaned, buried his head in John’s neck, and thrust, ever-so-slightly, into John’s palm.

John kissed the top of Charles’ head, and started to unlace his fly.

John grabbed Charles’ dick and stroked, and Charles knew immediately John had done this before. It was too practiced, too goddamn  _ sure  _ to leave any doubt. It made his eyes roll back in his head, made his chest flutter with a pleasant, intense mix of relief and desire.

John seemed to sense that Charles was vulnerable; he pushed Charles on the shoulder, sending him onto the ground, and then immediately rolled onto his knees over Charles, so that he was straddling one of Charles’ thighs.

There was a very loud groan that Charles realized came from his own mouth. He brought a hand up to his face and watched through his fingers as John licked his own palm thoroughly, then reached down to jerk him proper, with long, twisting, perfectly frantic strokes. John had a cocky, pleased look in his eye; he was watching his own hand, watching himself work Charles.

It took a few more seconds of panting for Charles to fully recover from shock. He’d never really imagined it this way, hunkered down in his bedroll at Beecher’s.

That’s what he got for assuming, he guessed.

Charles pulled at the hem of John’s shirt and slipped his fingers up and under - soft skin, firm, curving muscle, and pleasantly coarse hair. He pushed the shirt up to expose his stomach and chest and grinned at the half-embarrassed look on John’s face. Charles pinched at his chest lightly, which made John groan. Charles laughed; he couldn't help it. He was giddy, he realized - happy and relieved and unbelievably hard. He felt the hair on John’s chest, watched John’s eyes slip closed and his mouth fall open as he skimmed closer to the hem of his pants.

Charles unbuttoned his jeans, reached in to paw at him through his underclothes, then, without warning, lifted the leg between John's knees, which pitched him forward. John had to catch himself with both hands on either side of Charles’ head, and he let out an almost girlish gasp that made Charles’ hips jerk. John was a quick study, though; he immediately ground down on Charles’ thigh. They kissed again, desperately, deeply.

It was quick work after that; both men were too nervous and too enthusiastic to draw it out much longer. It didn’t take long for John to turn red and panting, to lean down low and start sucking on Charles’ neck and chest while he thrust, quick and hard along his leg. John started to muttered a string of curses that eventually melted into pleading. Charles ran hands all over him - thinking, perhaps, he might never get to again - and felt when John’s body started to shudder. He let out a long, low groan, and Charles felt spend, warm and sticky, land on his stomach and thigh.

John rolled to the side slightly, still kissing at Charles’ neck and ear, and letting a hand wander across Charles’ broad chest, and loop lazily back to where his erection was lying, hard and stiff, on his stomach.

John’s thumb pushed skin back and circled the tip, collecting precum as it went, and Charles was struck with the delicious, ridiculous thought that John might be better than him at this. Maybe much better?

But even as his mind formed it as a question, John did something with his wrist that made Charles’ soul leave his body. He didn’t think much after that.

A deep, exhausted, breathy sound in his ear was all it took for Charles to release over John’s hand and his own stomach. He was warm, so warm, and his skin burned pleasantly wherever John and he still touched - John’s head nestled in his neck, his hand on his stomach, his leg slung over Charles’ own. Charles hadn’t felt so relaxed, so loose and unworried, in a very long time.

Charles thought John might have something to say - something bawdy or stupid or both - but he heard John’s breathing even out and he knew; John was asleep.

It was an odd thing, to have known someone for so long, but so little until recently - perhaps until that very night, in Horseshoe Overlook. And maybe not even now. As he thought it, Charles drifted off to sleep as well.


	7. THE SECOND LEG

Charles woke with a headache. John was snoring almost directly into his ear. Carefully, Charles shifted and deposited John onto the ground. They had both slept between their two bedrolls on the bare ground like the idiots they were, and Charles looked down at himself to see dried jism all over his stomach and the right leg of his pants.

Idiots, in the truest sense of the word.

He scrunched his nose and climbed quietly to his feet. He’d have to wash his pants - he only brought one pair on the trip, and John’s certainly wouldn’t fit him. After pulling on a fresh shirt, he headed down to the stream, the same way he and John had walked the day before.

The trip was peaceful; the sun had barely risen, and Charles saw no one else on his way to the river. He still looked both ways before peeling off his shirt and wading into the river, pants still on. The water was freezing and the current was strong, but he stayed in long enough to thoroughly clean himself. After, he sat on a rock and watched birds bathe in the water.

Charles kept waiting for it all to hit him, for his chest to hurt, for his cheeks to burn. He thought at any moment, he’d feel regret, or get that familiar urge to flee, to save himself. But all he could think, all he could focus on, was that John had _done that before._

Like him.

John was like him.

And then, that easily, he was back there, back to the night before. To those sounds, to the feeling of John’s weight pressing him into the ground. To how John had looked, caught up in it and smug, hair hanging in his face, mouth open.

He pulled his shirt on, then trudged back up the hill.

“Charles! There you are.”

Charles let out a short snort in reply. “Yeah, here I am.”

“I thought you’d left.” John’s voice was small.

“John, Falmouth is still here.” He pointed to the hitching post and crossed to a patch of sunshine so he could keep drying out.

“Oh... Yeah. Where’d you go then?”

“I had to go wash. There was… a bit of a mess.” He motioned at his pants and watched John turn red, then smile. He seemed okay, Charles thought, and he looked rested. Maybe all he’d needed was a quick fuck.

“How’d you sleep?” Charles sprawled out on the sunny ground as he said it. John continued to stare at him, rather shamelessly.

“Real well.”

Charles let himself breathe and enjoy the sunshine for a few moments. Then, an idea struck him.

“Do you know how to braid hair?”

John perked up a little at that and shook his head.

“Come on, then. I’ll show you.” John scrambled up, and Charles told him to get the comb out of his bag. John trotted over towards Charles, then settled behind him and got to work.

“I ain’t ever had a comb.”

“I’ve noticed.” John shoved him on the shoulder in retaliation, but continued to brush. It felt better than Charles had anticipated, to have John do that for him - take care of him in some small way.

The braiding proved a little more difficult. After a couple of tries, John’s braid ended up quite lopsided, but Charles insisted on keeping it in. John tied it off at the bottom, then leaned his forehead into Charles’ back. They sighed in unison.

“Hey, Charles?”

“Yeah, John?”

“D’ya want to go into Valentine and get shaves? Then we can go camp in Cumberland tonight. I know we’re off schedule, but…” He trailed off.

Charles’ mouth quirked. A shave?

“Sure, John. I’ll get a shave.” He felt the stubble along his jaw, then twisted around to look at John appraisingly. “But I’d rather if you didn’t.”

At that, John smiled a crooked smile, looked at the ground, and turned a wonderful shade of pink.

They headed into Valentine once Charles’ pants were mostly dry. It was a quick ride. The town looked so much like it had back in the day that Charles and John exchanged uncomfortable glances as they passed the first building. 

The barber was none-too-friendly to Charles. He did shave him, though, with John glowering from the corner all the while. Charles had to stop him from going back in afterwards.

“If you killed every person what looked at me funny, there’d just be me and you left.”

John grunted at this, but didn’t seem mollified. They picked up some ammo and ate lunch before heading back out on the road. The trees grew denser and the sun fell in the sky, and they made sure to stay well south of the nearby fort. Eventually, once it was too dark to ride, they picked a campsite deep into the brush. Charles knew they were very close to the grave now, he recognized the land, how it was starting to swell into hills and rocky cliffs - but he decided not to mention it to John. He’d see in the morning, at any rate.

John set up camp in silence while Charles tended to the horses; they hadn’t talked much that day. Charles suspected John felt much the same as him - not quite sure what to make of it all, and not wanting to spoil whatever had happened, whatever was between them now.

Passing the fort had reminded Charles of the sheer chaos they’d spread across this country back with Dutch. Breaking into the fort at least had an honorable goal; the bridge John and Arthur destroyed was not too far away now - there had been no good reason for that.

They began to smoke after dinner, still avoiding each other’s gaze. Charles wondered what John was thinking about.

He had a feeling it wasn’t the bridge. 

Charles let out a long exhale of smoke. Just like that, he was back to the night before, back to John’s big hands and smooth skin and rough stubble. The next time he stole a glance at John, he found grey eyes staring back at him. There was a look on his face, something dark and playful and good. John stood, and stepped into Charles’ space.

And then, slowly, he lowered himself to his knees in front of Charles.

“John?”

“Yeah?” John tucked his chin down toward his shoulder, as if suddenly shy.

Charles opened his legs, and John’s face broke into a smile. He crawled forward, sat back up onto his knees, and rested his hands on Charles’ thighs.

Turned out, John was good at this too. He took Charles in his mouth still half-soft, as Charles looked on, unable to do much to help. It didn’t take long for him to figure out John didn’t need much help. The sounds made as John moved along him, wet and loud, were almost too obscene, and John himself only added to them, groaning and sighing so much Charles started to suspect it was only for his benefit.

But that went out of his mind when John popped off him, then held Charles’ gaze as he unbuttoned his own pants and took himself in hand. He was fully hard already, and before Charles could react, John sank back down onto him.

He had one hand on himself, one hand stroking Charles where he couldn’t reach with his mouth. Charles reached up a tentatively, grabbed some hair at the back of John’s head, and pulled him further down.

John’s moan came out muffled around his cock. Charles held him down until he squirmed, but when he let up on the pressure, John stayed down. Charles watched John’s hips twitch, and let out a single, low groan at the sight.

Charles' head swam with a strange, intoxicating mixture of feeling powerlessness and feeling utterly in control. He grabbed John’s hair again, harder this time, and dragged him up and back down, raising his hips ever so slightly to meet wet heat.

That time, he felt the back of John’s throat, and John choked around him, then made a long, high sound. Charles realized from his sudden stillness and the way his eyes glazed over that John must have finished, that quickly, that easily.

John fell limp between his legs, and Charles took advantage of it with a small smile on his face. He stood slowly, forcing John to scoot back a little and look up at him. Charles grabbed his hair again, and John let his mouth fall open wide. It was even better like this - with John relaxing his jaw and just looking up at him - and Charles fucked into his mouth without any of the restraint from before. Charles’ hips stuttered, and he grabbed John with both hands as he released straight down his throat.

John let out a few short moans. Charles wasn’t sure anything had ever felt better than that - than seeing John below him, hearing him, feeling him, claiming him. He watched John pull off slowly and swallow.

John flopped straight onto his bedroll with a satisfied groan. His face looked about how Charles felt - fucked out and dazed and fond. Charles lowered himself to the ground next to John after fastening his pants. With a small smile, John opened his arms and let Charles rest his head on his chest.

“I haven’t sucked a cock in so long.” He sounded almost stupidly happy, and let out another long groan, as if still relishing the memory. Charles laughed unsteadily. He was still panting a little, still feeling the last of that high.

“I didn’t even think you went with men until yesterday night, John.”

John laughed and put his hand on Charles’ chest, over his heart.

“You didn’t? I sniffed you out from a mile away. Way back when Dutch brought you to our Blackwater camp.”

Charles laughed again and slipped a hand under John’s shirt, then took to tracing from his ribs down to his hips and back in small circuits.

“So when was it, John? The last time you sucked a cock? Before Abigail?”

John didn’t answer right away, so Charles pushed off of him to look him in the face. John looked embarrassed, but not guilty.

“Nah, not that long.” Charles smiled and watched John squirm under his gaze. “Abigail knew. Life was different back then. Everything felt hectic, temporary.”

Charles nodded. He remembered. He smiled wider, and John seemed to relax under him. Charles leaned in for a short kiss, then sprawled out on his back next to John, looking at the stars through the treetops above. A few minutes passed. Charles slipped his hand into John’s.

Charles knew what John was going to ask next, before he even started.

“Did you and Arthur - I mean - were you two…?”

Charles watched him flounder for a bit, clearly embarrassed, even after what they’d just done.

“No.”

“I thought for sure -”

“We never really got the chance.”

The fire cast shadows on the trees, making the forest above them look alive with movement. John didn’t speak.

“Once we both realized, once we both knew,” Charles said, trying to choose his words with care, but fumbling over them anyway. He realized he didn’t have the vocabulary for it. He’d never talked about it aloud. He looked over at John appealingly.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“It was too late, then. He was back from Guarma, we were at Beaver’s Hollow. We killed all them Murfrees, and then he just… told me. And I told him back. But we were so busy then, and he was already so sick, dying. I reckon he half knew it already. He found out for sure soon after anyway.”

“So, what happened?”

Charles shrugged. “He died. It was too late.”

John grimaced.

“Don’t look that way, John. I ain’t someone to pity.”

“I know that.”

“But… We did get to talk a good amount. And he never told me about you.”

John looked over at him, surprised.

“No, no. We were as brothers.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, and John’s mouth twitched up at the side.

“Maybe, when I was young, I had a little more than simple admiration for him.” Charles laughed a little, picturing a skinny black-haired boy getting flustered and stupid whenever Arthur came around. “And later on, we both kind of figured it out about each other. One of those open type of secrets, you know.”

Charles nodded.

John sniffed, then spoke again. “I wondered, back then, about the two of you.”

“You probably caught on quicker than we did. He wasn’t quite… comfortable with it. With himself.”

“Yeah, I know that as well.” John’s tone changed then, but he didn’t offer any more details, and Charles didn’t ask.

John ran his free hand through his own hair.

“I think Bill was an invert, too.”

Charles burst out laughing.

“A whole camp of them, huh?”

John smiled.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Charles didn’t remember falling asleep, and he slept without dreaming, with a smile on his face and his hand still curled around John’s.


	8. THE GRAVE AND OTHER DISASTERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the new tags!

They woke the next morning and broke camp without saying much to each other. John was nervous; Charles could tell. If he was being honest, he was a bit nervous as well.

They mounted up, and Charles led the way. Like Charles had thought, they had very little ground to cover. When Charles slowed and dismounted, he heard John make a small, reluctant noise. They hitched their horses and crested the hill together.

Charles stopped about five feet away from the cross, but John kept moving forward. He dropped to his knees in front of it. Charles lowered his eyes.

“You found him here?”

“Nah. Had to move him. He always said he wanted -”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Charles couldn’t help but think of that day. Of all the times he’d seen bodies, moved them, held them - nothing compared to that. To seeing  _ him _ , small and cold. To having to sling him over his shoulder, listen to his joints crack, feel the utterly lifeless weight of him.

He buried Arthur deep in that hillside, hoping he would finally rest, and rest peacefully.

Charles approached John, and sat behind him. He pulled his knees in close to his chest and shivered despite the heat. John was still kneeling there, eyes trained at the base of the grave.

“He saw me once.”

Charles watched the back of his head and waited.

“Saw me leave a bar with a man. I musta’ been… sixteen? We were in a nowhere town. Hosea and Dutch let me n’ Arthur go to a saloon to blow off steam. I thought he wasn’t watching me, thought I could get away with it - Arthur was drunk as hell.”

He sneaked a look at Charles out of the corner of his eye, then looked back at the grave.

“Wasn’t my first time. Not anywhere close, really. We were out in the back, fucking against the wall. You know how those sorts of things are.”

Charles wished he didn’t, but he did. He nodded.

“He was holding me there, my pants around my ankles. He was much older than me… probably Dutch’s age, now I think of it. And I still remember - Arthur rounded the corner and stopped. Took it all in, looked me in the eye, his brother.”

John paused to huff out a breath.

“And he pulled that man off me by his collar and just started to beat the ever-loving shit out of him.” He wiped at his face. “I was yellin’, beggin’ him to stop. I couldn’t quite say what I meant - it weren’t his fault, I’d wanted it - but I was still beggin’ him. Yelled ‘til my throat gave out. But he didn’t stop.”

John turned and looked Charles full in the face.

“I don’t know if that man lived after that. His face was…” He shook his head. “And Arthur just pulled me out of that alley, left him there, laid on the ground, bleedin’. I had to help Arthur onto his horse he was so drunk. We rode back to camp.”

The words came quicker now, like a confession.

“He pulled me aside a couple of days later. He didn’t apologize. Told me to be smart around men like that. Told me… told me I wasn’t that sort of man.” His voice got a bit louder then. “Grabbed me by the shoulder, shook me, told me I wasn’t. Not that I shouldn’t be - that I  _ wasn’t _ . And I didn’t tell him then, I never told him, that I’d seen him with a man, years before. A guy that had run with us for a couple of months before getting himself killed in a robbery. I’d seen them, together. I knew that he was that sort of man, too.”

After a moment of silence, Charles murmured in a low, calm voice, “That ain’t no sort of nice story, John.”

John let out an empty laugh.

“No, it ain’t.” He looked back at the grave and took a shaky breath. 

A minute passed, then two.

“I miss… him.”

It sounded about the way Charles felt.

They sat there for about an hour more, talking occasionally, but mostly just looking. Charles told John his own version of the day he and Arthur had scouted out Clemens Point. John told Charles about how Arthur used to listen to him read aloud from Dutch’s books and help him with the words.

Charles was surprised when John stood up, put a hand on the top of the cross, and turned around towards him.

“C’mon.”

“You good?”

John smiled weakly.

“Yeah. This is what I was looking for.”

He helped Charles get up. Charles stole one more glance back as they walked away. They mounted up quickly and rode somewhat aimlessly north, crossing the Dakota near the abandoned Wapiti reservation, then turning back south.

They crossed another river before slowing to a stop and looking at each other.

“We could go west for a bit, then back south towards Valentine,” John said as he scratched his nose. He sounded as reluctant as Charles felt.

Charles hummed.

“Alright, Jo-” He was cut off by a sharp crack - a gun shot rang past them and hit the cliff wall behind. Both of them twisted in their saddles, looking for the source of the noise, and drew their guns. There were two riders high on a cliff back a ways; as they watched, the men disappeared behind the ledge, clearly making chase.

“Those look like bounty hunters. But we ain’t got a bounty,” Charles said. They both spurred their horses to a trot. Charles looked back at John, who had a telling look on his face - guilty and a bit annoyed. Charles rolled his eyes and pet at his horse’s neck to calm him.

“Well, alright then, John. If it’s you they’re after, what do you want to do?” Another shot rang out as he said it, but it wasn’t as surprising this time.

“They’re still a good bit behind, and the path is narrow here. Let’s just try to lose ‘em.”

They broke into a gallop without further conversation. The road stretched out before them. There were drop offs or sheer rock faces on either side, no great places to leave the trail. Still, they kept a good distance in front of the bounty hunters.

Ahead, Charles saw two more riders waiting at crossroads.

“John!”

“I see ‘em,” John roared above the rush of wind. He took quick aim and dropped the closest of them in one shot. The other readied his gun in response. The shot whizzed by, but missed both of them. They didn’t slow as they passed him, and he took chase as well. Charles turned to shoot at him, and saw the man aim at John, then drop his sights lower. Before he could warn John, he heard the shot ring out.

Charles watched it happen, powerless to help. The bullet caught the horse full on the neck with a fantastic spurt of blood. Her legs tangled, and John was propelled forward, off the saddle. He flipped in midair and landed on his back, hard. Luckily, Rachel didn’t land directly on top of him.

Charles shot at the bounty hunter as he passed. He hit the ground with a thud, and his horse raced on ahead without him.

Charles stopped on the spot. He was relieved to see John spring up. He appraised his horse quickly, shot her in the forehead, and snatched his saddlebag off her body.

The other two were still fast approaching from behind; Charles could hear the galloping of the horses, but couldn’t see them around the curve in the road. John reached up, and Charles helped John clamber up behind him on the saddle. They shot off again. The cliff to their right fell away into a blessedly dense forest. Without asking John, Charles cut off the path and into the trees. He had to slow Falmouth, but they weaved deep into the foliage. Half a minute later, they heard the other two thunder past.

Charles stopped his horse, and they both climbed off.

“Shit.” John lengthened the word into two syllables. “I liked that damn horse.”

Charles was still breathing hard. He shot John an accusatory glare.

  
“What have you been doin’ in Ambarino to get a team on you like that?”

John managed to look a bit sheepish.

“You know I need the money.”

“John.”

“I shoulda’ told you, I know. But we’re barely in this goddamn state. How’d they find us?”

“Probably somebody recognized you in Valentine, followed you across the border.”

“A hundred dollars ain’t even that much,” he whined. Charles laughed involuntarily.

“John, the last time I had a hundred dollars on my head, I was riding with Dutch.”

“Yeah but you’re good, ain’t you.”

John’s standards for ‘good’ were pretty low, in Charles’ estimation. He fixed John with a hard glare. 

“You could be too, you know.”

John looked at the forest floor.

“I really liked that goddamn horse. I’ve had her for a while.”

Charles sighed.

“I’m sorry, John. You did the right thing, though. She got shot in the neck.”

John nodded, then slung his saddlebag over Charles’ horse.

“What now?”

Charles looked at him, considering. They were both sweaty and panting, adrenaline running through their veins. He had quite a few ideas what they could do just then, but it wasn’t really the right time.

“Now, John,” he took care to keep his voice patient, “we get you a new horse. And no, we aren’t going to steal it. There’s a nice stable over in Strawberry. We can make our way west. It’s in the right general direction anyway. We can cut south after that.”

“That’ll take a while. We’ll have to alternate walking and riding to not wear him out.” John pet at Falmouth’s mane.

“Yeah, John. It will take a while.”

John caught his meaning, then smiled.

“Alright.”


	9. A SIGNIFICANT DETOUR

The trip did end up taking a while. It could have been faster, but the pair of them tended to stop for the night early and break camp late. They also tried to keep mostly off the road, which, in the mountainous terrain, proved to be pretty difficult. It took them four days and three nights, all told.

When they rode together, John took to wrapping his arms around Charles, low, and burying his face in his shoulder. Riding two to a horse wasn’t comfortable, never would be, but the things John whispered there, as Charles laughed and flushed, made it a little more bearable.

When they walked, which was most of the time for the horse’s sake, they talked to pass the time. Charles told John things he’d never told anyone - things about his parents, about his time alone before he’d met Dutch or Arthur or any of them.

On the second night, they settled in a particularly beautiful spot - an isolated hillside with a nice view of the looming mountains - and they ended up spending the whole next day there. John looked good that afternoon - stretched out under a clear sky with his shirt collar loose and open. Somewhere between playing cards (John always won) and taking a nap with Charles' hand up his shirt, John looked at Charles and said, “I think I actually miss Beecher’s.”

And Charles laughed, and replied, “You know, I think I do too.”

It was a lie, of course, but it made John smile.

They arrived in Strawberry on the fourth day, happy and rested, as the sun started to dip low in the sky. They went to the stables first, and, despite his protests, Charles bought John a pretty stallion. They rode back up to the town, side by side.

“Let me pay you back.”

Charles waved him off. “I owe you.”

“What for? For sucking you?”

Charles snorted in surprise.

“No, you pervert. For takin’ me in. Letting me stay with you back at Beecher’s.”

“You don’t owe me nothing, and you know that.”

They stopped and hitched in front of Strawberry’s hotel. It’d always been a little too fussy for Charles’ taste, and he found the staff and guests there more likely to give him sideways glances than average.

“You go in, John, and get a room. I’ll have to sneak up after.”

John gave him a long look and climbed the stairs to the hotel.

Thirty minutes later, when Charles clambered up to the balcony and let himself into the room, John was already sprawled on the bed in his underclothes, over the blanket.

“Look a little more at ease, would you?”

John smiled up at him.

“I took a bath.”

Charles appraised his wet hair and mimed shock. John scowled.

“Well, let me see, then.” Charles climbed onto the bed and crawled over to him. He buried his face in John’s neck and took a deep breath in. He did smell good - like a thick layer of fancy soap covering John Marston - heady in a way that made Charles sigh.

John, meanwhile, was loosing Charles’ hair from the braid that John himself had tied that morning. He got better every time, but was still pretty sloppy.

“You shaved.” Charles tried not to sound disappointed.

“Yeah - it was getting annoying. Itchy, you know.” Charles drew back and nodded. He dragged a hand down John’s cheek and felt his scars. He realized he’d missed them; the beard had hid them almost completely.

“What do you want to do, John?” He let the words rumble low through his chest, and he watched John squirm a little under him.

“Something, I guess.”

It was amazing to think just five days had passed since they spent the night in Horseshoe. It felt natural with John now, easy. John pulled at Charles’ shirt, and Charles dutifully peeled it off over his head. John always went for his shirt first.

He landed beside John with a soft  _ thump _ , and took to kissing his neck lightly. He started to suck a little harder, thinking of how nice it would be to put marks on that new, smooth skin. Charles shoved John over and focused on stripping him. He forced John to spread his legs and open his hips. His cock was still half-soft, laying on his stomach.

“Okay, John, now you gotta show me.”

“Show you what?”

“How you like it.”

He caught one of John’s hands, which had been reaching for him, and put a small tin into his hands.

“I bought this for you as well, while you took your bath. It was cheaper than the horse, that’s for sure.”

John took off the lid and a small smile crept onto his face. He stuck two fingers inside and coated them in slick. He put the tin on the side table, then pushed himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard.

They hadn’t fucked yet, not proper. They’d gotten pretty close that day in the mountains, between smoking until their lungs hurt and making out like teenagers. But Charles had insisted that it wasn’t something worth rushing into.

Charles leaned over and kissed John, deep, before he could start. He bit at his lips, reached a hand down to stroke at him a little, to feel him harden. John let out a moan. There, that’s what Charles had been waiting for. He pulled back again, watching, waiting.

John reached down and spread slick over his asshole. His eyes closed as he slipped the first finger in. He pumped it a little, and then (maybe too quickly, it seemed to Charles) he started again with two fingers. His mouth fell open then, and his eyes opened to look at Charles, who was palming himself through his pants.

With a smile, Charles leaned over and licked the head of his cock. John sighed above him. Charles kissed downward and licked at where John’s fingers were buried to the knuckle.

“Shit, Charles, shit.” John was panting as he drew his fingers out slowly, and Charles licked his way in. John let out a strangled sort of groan and ground slightly into Charles’ mouth. Charles gently drew back.

“You gotta be quiet, John. We ain’t in the woods anymore.” He gave him a sly smile.

John laughed drunkenly at that, and Charles went back licking him open, soft and slow. He felt John’s hand at his cheek, in his hair, pulling and smoothing in a perfect sort of rhythm. He drew back. He watched as John pushed three fingers in; John had a flush creeping down his neck, and he was watching Charles with heavy-lidded eyes.

Charles watched how he did it, watched how John started to fuck down on his own fingers, how he angled himself to hit just the right spot.

Charles was so hard he felt like he might burst, but he decided to leave himself be. John reached his free hand up and started to stroke himself slow. Charles leaned over him to grab for the tin, and caught a few kisses on the way. He got his fingers well and coated, then threw the tin to the side. It clattered on the floor.

He reached out and touched John’s hand that was still pumping in and out of himself. He got the idea quick, and moved it out of the way. Charles knew John was already worked up, already more than halfway there, and maybe for exactly that reason, he started slow again, first just looking, darting his tongue out to lick his lips.

“Charles… Please.”

It was thin, whiny. Charles smiled a little.

He squeezed his balls lightly, then trailed a single, slicked finger down and traced his hole.

“You know, John. My fingers are a good bit thicker than yours.” As he said it, he slid in two fingers in one smooth motion, watched John’s back arch into it.

Tight, tight enough to make him reconsider not taking John Marston right there. He started to fuck into him, imagining what it would feel like. John, for his part, had started to mumble incoherently. His head was thrown to one side, and all Charles could tell was that it was some sort of begging.

Charles stretched him a bit more, then went in with three. He angled his hand just so, watched John’s toes curl, and knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

John finished with a punched-out groan, coating his own chest. Charles watched his face, enjoying the way each and every feeling, each wave, seemed to show up there, clear as day - pleasure, pain, pleasure, awe - and what looked like fondness.

That night, they didn’t talk about Beecher’s, or how it was less than a day’s ride away. They swapped funny stories, played cards, told jokes, and fell asleep naked and sweaty on top of the covers, slotted close together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex in the Strawberry hotel is practically a rdr smut trope at this point and I am happy to contribute.


	10. THE THIRD LEG

They woke slowly the next morning, a rather un-Charles-like habit they’d fallen into over the past week. After they piddled around the hotel a while and ate breakfast, John insisted on stopping back by the stable on the way out of town to “get some essentials.”

By the time they left in earnest, it was noon.

They both knew why they were dawdling, but neither put it to words. Charles, for his part, couldn’t quite figure out how. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get back. It was that he knew this was temporary - that it would never be quite like this again.

The trail was forgiving that day, though hot. John took point, and Charles watched the back of John’s neck turn from white to pink to red with some amusement.

As they crossed the Montana, John looked back at him.

“I know you didn’t have to take me, Charles.”

Charles met his eye and nodded. “Weren’t no problem, John.”

“And,” John’s voice strained a little as he said it, “you don’t have to stay at Beecher’s again, if you don’t want to.”

They hadn’t talked about that since Horseshoe - about Charles leaving. They both watched the trail ahead.

“I ain’t about to leave.”

John kept his eyes forward.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, John. I’m sure.”

They reached the ranch in good time, as the sun was starting to dip low, and found Uncle sleeping under a tree.

John gave Charles a look and dismounted.

“At least I ain’t got nothing valuable here yet.”

Charles snorted and watched as John crossed to Uncle and gave him a shake. He started and looked blearily up at both of them.

“Boys, I never in my life thought I’d see you again.” He bustled up as if he hadn’t just been sound asleep.

“We told you it’d be a week.”

“And it’s the eighth day, ain’t it?”

“Half a day too long, and you assume we’re dead?”

Uncle just laughed, and Charles joined in. John looked peeved but walked back with them, towards the house.

That night, true to his word, Charles moved his things into the extra room, and slept alone on the wooden floor he’d helped nail down.


	11. SOME WORK

Just as Charles had predicted, there was still plenty of work for him to do. They spent about a week planning for the barn - where it would be, how much John would have to pay for it - then had to delay for a while, since all three of them were clean out of money.

They eventually did get that barn built, with the help of a crew, mostly while John was away earning money some way or another. After their scare with Uncle and the Skinners, life started to feel like a waiting game to Charles.

Waiting for Uncle to heal.

Waiting for Abigail and Jack to reappear.

Waiting for John to grow tired of him.

They took to fucking in the loft of the barn, where Uncle was very unlikely to stumble upon them, or in Charles’ room in the house, with hands clamped over each other’s mouths to muffle the noise. Charles knew John didn’t want to use his own room, and he knew why; it didn’t bother him. Not really.

They mucked stalls and herded cattle, sweated and kissed and worked and fucked until they were sore and tired and boneless at the end of each day. They went to bed early and woke up early. John looked healthier by the day; he lost that gauntness Charles had noticed in him. The bags under his eyes stayed, though.

They talked about Arthur less and less. It wasn’t that Charles was thinking of him any less often. John did remind him of Arthur less, though. He knew John too well now to think that way, and he assumed it was the same for John. Sometimes Charles would turn a corner and find John reading that damned book. He left John alone when that happened.

Even though they had the house and a fireplace inside, the three of them still built fires outside on clear nights. Charles supposed it would take more than an empty house to make him and Uncle and John into proper civilians.

Like before, Uncle tended to drift off after a few beers, only now he’d stumble into the house and fall asleep in the living room.

Unlike before, Charles and John now traded kisses and touches as well as stories. It was intoxicating; Charles had almost forgotten how it felt to be touched so often, to be wanted and needed. Or maybe he had never known before then.

“You said once you ran with a guy before you joined the gang.” John’s comment caught him by surprise one clear night. Charles’ back was hurting something terrible, so he was flat on the ground by the fire, with John sitting on a log next to him.

“Yeah, uh, sort of.” John loomed over him, studying his face. “There was a guy I ran with when I was real young. For a few months, actually. We,” Charles swallowed, the memories hitting harder than expected, “didn’t really talk much, though. Just survived. Had each other’s back.”

“What happened to him?”

Charles looked up at him and shrugged.

“One day, I woke up, and he was gone.”

“Just like that?”

Charles nodded and looked at the stars overhead. In the distance, a cow lowed.

“She should’ve come back by now.”

Charles nodded again, slowly.

“Sleep in my room tonight, John. Uncle won’t notice.” John looked down at him. “They’re comin’ back. And soon. But for now, no use being alone in a mood such as this.”

John helped him stand up and let Charles lean his weight into him so they could hobble back toward the house together. Charles motioned for him to stop at the porch. He fished cigarettes out of his pocket and gave John one. They lit up and leaned against the railing.

“You shouldn’t work tomorrow. Or the next day. You need a rest.”

Charles scoffed a little in response. “Isn’t that why you keep me around?”

“No, it ain’t. And you know that, Charlie.”

Charles shot a glance at him, then took another drag. He looked across the property. The horizon was just barely discernible in the dark. He thought of riding over that line, of getting lost. Of not being known so well anymore.

“Why you always got that look on your face these days?” John sounded hostile. Charles snapped his head towards him and furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“You always got this look on your face like you’re gonna crawl out of your skin. Like you want to leave.” John sniffed and brought the cigarette to his lips.

Charles puffed his chest almost unconsciously. “No I don’t. I’m just tired, is all.”

“I’m starting to be able to tell when you lie.”

They glared at each other for a moment.

John spoke again, his voice rising. “If you’re wanting to leave now, then go. I’m not gonna hold you here. I know about leaving, Charles.” John had never talked about his time away from the gang in all their time swapping secrets. “I didn’t work for me. I don’t think it’ll work for you. Not anymore, at least.”

Charles turned away from him. 

“I didn’t choose this,” John murmured, then ground his cigarette out. “She did. She wanted this place. And I know it ain’t exactly what any of us would have chosen, but it’s what I got now. It’s what you got, too.”

Charles swallowed and put out his cigarette as well. “I ain’t got shit, here or anywhere else.”

He didn’t look over, but he knew he’d hurt John, knew the kind of look he’d have on his face just then.

They still slept in Charles’ room together, not really wanting to face the night alone. The room was completely bare; Charles slept on a bedroll on the floor, and when John joined him they laid out extra blankets. They fell asleep that night without talking about it any more, a few inches apart. But when Charles woke up the next morning, John was curled into his side, arm draped possessively over his chest.

Charles let himself imagine waking up next to John like this in a proper bed. He imagined staying, forever. Being there for more than just the toil. The work, really, was the easiest part. He could be there for the hard parts. For the grief, the love, the pain.

For the first time in that whole strange summer, he envied Abigail. It left a bad taste in his mouth, tangy and metallic like blood.

He carefully moved John’s arm without waking him up, and got up to start the morning chores.


	12. A HOME

Abigail and Jack arrived out of the clear blue sky on a bright Thursday morning. Charles knew it was Thursday because John’s bank payments were due the next day; Charles also knew that John couldn’t pay them.

But such mundane concerns were far from anyone’s minds once two figures climbed off of a coach and started hauling their luggage up the long road towards Beecher’s Hope. Charles watched from a distance, leaning on the barn, as John ran toward them, then stopped in his tracks.

He could imagine what John must be feeling and working through in that moment.

Doubt, and abandonment, and relief, and some anger, too.

Oh, and love.

The two hugged; John lifted her off the ground, and Charles smiled to himself. He watched them all walk back to the house together, a proper family.

Dinner that night was the best any of them’d had for months, even though Uncle scalded the stew and they ended up eating cold meat out of cans, sitting on the bare floor of the living room. It didn’t matter; suddenly, with Abigail and Jack there, with John looking at the two of them like he couldn’t believe his eyes, the mostly empty house felt like a home. Uncle told Jack lies about their adventures building the house, and halfway through dinner, Abigail threw an arm around Charles’ shoulder and just squeezed, like she was glad he was there, too. Like he belonged.

After Jack settled into his room for the night, Abigail and John disappeared. And that’s when Charles started to think.

He had known the entire time that he was borrowing something that probably wasn’t strictly his for the borrowing. He and John had always hedged around that, needing the comfort too much to discuss the risks. Now that John had his family back, though, it made Charles reconsider what they had.

It seemed less justified in retrospect. Charles even mustered up a little shame about it; it’d been a long time since he’d felt badly about the way he was, but somehow looking at a happy family he’d interfered in brought that old spark of pain back into him. No matter how many times John had insisted otherwise, it turned out Charles really was a bad man after all.

Life fell into a steady rhythm once again. Abigail admirably made due with the sparse furniture; before the week was out they were eating dinner around a table, with real dishes and all.

John was generally unchanged - with a spring in his step and fewer lines on his face, maybe - but he still joked and worked and sweated with Charles the same as always. For the first few days, John didn’t try anything, and neither did Charles. Sometimes Charles caught John looking; sometimes he looked himself. But they never spoke of it. Charles knew he should feel guilty around Abigail, but she put him at ease somehow. It'd been a long time since he'd lived around a woman.

After four days of that - four days of Abigail smiling at him and John acting very much like he had before their trip, before Horseshoe - Charles thought the silence might kill him. For the first time in his life, Charles Smith wished for noise.

On the eighth day, he and John birthed a foal, and it set Charles to thinking of that night, what felt like forever ago, under the stars outside the skeleton house with John, swapping stories. How after John’d gone to bed that night, Charles had stayed up late, watching the fire and imagining touching him, kissing him. He remembered feeling shy about it, and guilty - like John might peer into his mind the next morning and see what he'd been dreaming up.

After the whole process was over and the foal was sleeping happily with its mother, they stood leaning against the wall of the barn and smoking and not saying much of anything. Charles glanced up at John at precisely the wrong moment and caught him staring back with quite a look on his face - a look that said maybe he was thinking of that night, too. Charles wet his lips and watched as John pushed himself off of the barn and came to stand in front of him. Charles held his gaze as John put both hands at either side of his head.

It was their first kiss in a while, and, Christ, was it good. Charles wrapped his hands around John’s waist and pulled him in deeper. If they just didn’t stop, just didn’t pause, maybe he could ignore whatever thoughts might surface otherwise. He thought of grabbing John by that fucking red tie around his neck, of bending him over a fence, of climbing into the loft, of getting to hold him for a few stolen hours, or even minutes.

If they just kept going.

John slowed, tried to pull back. Charles chased him, craning his neck forward, and John laughed. Their eyes met, and John’s smile widened.

It felt cruel, the way that smile made Charles’ chest tighten, the way it made him remember every other smile he’d coaxed out of John over the summer.

He pushed John off, maybe a little harder than was necessary, and walked away without looking back. John didn’t try to follow.

Charles avoided being alone with John after that, especially late in the day when the sun started to sink and they both started to sweat and pant, and their looks began to linger. Charles spent the the eleventh day after Abigail and Jack's return riding out on his own to the west, out to where the canyons began to fall off and the earth turned red.

It took about three weeks after Abigail and Jack arrived for Charles to decide. He was on the porch after dinner, remembering that night when he and John had fought - what John had said.

_If you’re wanting to leave now, then go._

There was a soft thump as Jack sat in the chair next to him, smiling. Jack was much more interesting than he had been as a little one; he was sullen and unpredictable in a way Charles knew adolescents to be, but had never really experienced firsthand since his was that age. Jack seemed to like him, too. Charles was a good bit calmer than his father, at any rate, and a good bit more patient.

That night, they talked about Europe. Jack had been reading a book about it. He told Charles all sorts of facts and figures, showed him pictures of cathedrals and grand things neither of them could quite comprehend. There was something nice about talking to the boy, about watching eagerness shine through his put-on indifference, about recognizing flashes of his parents in his face and words.

Charles’d never put much thought into a family - thought no good could come of it - but little Jack, who had every reason to have turned out ruined and sad like the rest of them, seemed to be doing pretty well.

“If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”

“I don’t know, Jack.”

“I’d go to Rome. See where the gladiators fought.” His voice cracked over the last word, and Charles had to hide an amused smile. Jack made him feel old, but somehow in a good way - like all his shitty, painful life had at least bought him some experience, some wisdom.

“Maybe you’ll get to go there someday, Jack.”

Jack smiled at that and stood.

“Goodnight, Uncle Charles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charles just nodded at him. A heavy slap of guilt, the first of the night, landed on his chest.

Uncle, John, and Abigail came out one by one to say goodnight. It wasn’t unusual for Charles to be the last to bed and the first awake the next morning. John tried to start a conversation, which Charles quickly cut off. Abigail just squeezed his arm like she had taken to doing, gave him a searching look, then followed John inside.

He sat still for a long time; he tensed and relaxed every muscle in his body in turn, counted the coyotes’ howls, measured his breathing. There was an art to thoughtlessness, to calm, that Charles had perfected in his life. No need to get worked up by such a small thing - he’d be back.

He tried to keep track of time as well. When he thought it was around two in the morning, he braided his hair, carefully and tightly, into a neat row down the middle of his back, then rose from his chair, stretched his back, and headed for the barn.

The doors squeaked when he pushed them open. He squinted as Falmouth’s body came into view through the darkness; it looked like someone was standing by him, stroking his side. His first thought was John, and his mind went into panic. He didn't know what he could possibly say to John.

But as he drew closer, he saw that it was Abigail, almost glowing white through the gloom in her worn nightdress. She turned around slowly at the sound of his steps.

“Well, fancy meeting you here, Mr. Smith.”

She addressed him with arms crossed, a knowing look on her face. Her hair was loose, and her nightgown was thin. Charles had never seen her like this before. It made him want to drop his eyes to the ground; it wasn't polite to look. But something about the look in her eye kept him staring right back.

“Mind telling me what you were planning to do?”

Charles thought of several lies, but the truth came out first.

“I was leaving.”

She nodded, like she was pleased he didn’t try to fool her.

“Why you feel you need to do that?”

“It’s time.”

“Sure, but I asked you why.”

He clenched his jaw. There was no right answer here, no way to leave peaceably, like he had planned.

“I don’t stay places, Abigail. This ain’t my house. It’s yours and John’s and Jack’s. I’ll come visit. But for now I gotta move on.”

She answered without hesitation, as soon as he was done. “Fine, fine, Charles. Sounds reasonable. Never mind that you built the damn house, that you slept in there for weeks, that we want you there. You’re right. It ain’t yours at all.” Charles narrowed his eyes at the sarcasm. “But if you’re going to leave, you have to go tell John first. I won’t do that for you.”

“Abigail,” Charles heard his own voice break involuntarily. He thought absurdly of Jack earlier that evening, of how he didn’t want to leave him either. Not really. “Please, I can’t.”

“Why not, Charles?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me. I ain’t dumb.”

“Please, Abigail. I can’t-”

“You can’t what?”

“You don’t want me to stay, Abigail.” He knew it was a mistake the moment he said it. A fire kindled behind her eyes.

“You’re wrong. John told me you were here in that letter he sent. I was relieved. I’m still glad you’re here. Thankful, even.”

It broke his heart to see her with bare shoulders, hair falling around her face, squaring herself to him and saying those words. He hadn’t just made a mistake himself; he’d made her a fool, too. His chest burned.

“I’m sorry.”

Her face softened. “Don’t apologize to me, Charles. You’ve been nothing but good in my life ever since you showed up.”

“You don’t - you don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t stay here.”

He made to grab his saddle off the rack, but Abigail blocked his way, hands now on her hips.

“Get out of the way, Abigail. You can’t make me stay.” He put out his hand, palm up - half warning, half begging.

“You think I don’t know, Charles?”

His skin prickled at that; his hair stood on end.

She sniffed, pursed her lips, then continued, “You think John has ever managed to keep a single secret from me?”

He was frozen to the spot, arm still held out. Dread, black and cold and heavy like lead, spread from the back of his throat down to his stomach.

“What are you -” His voice sounded weak, and Abigail cut him off.

“Charles, I meant what I said. Ain’t nothing but good come from you to me.” She smiled a little, and brought a hand to her throat. “I left him, Charles. I left him, then came back, and I ain’t mad about what happened in between.”

Disbelief followed the dread, and then guilt, sure and sad.

She tilted her head and reached out to hold his hand, still outstretched. He drew it back quickly.

“You don’t understand, Abigail.”

“Don’t you talk down to me, Charles Smith. You was never one to do that.”

Charles watched her; it felt like his bones were coming loose in his body. He couldn’t believe she knew, couldn’t believe she was still trying to get him to stay.

“It’s best I leave. For all of us. For you two.”

She glared at him, and he suddenly felt a sharp empathy for John. It was hard to look away from those piercing blue eyes.

“You’re too used to taking care of people, Charles. Too used to making decisions for ‘em. You gotta let me and John decide what’s best for us. And -“ she looked at the ground and had the decency to blush a little, “- and I’ll let you and John decide what’s best for the two of you.”

The last came out as a whisper. Her eyes met his again, then darted away.

It didn't make sense. None of it did. If he pushed past her, would he be able to saddle up and get out? Would he ever be able to visit again if he did? But there was a tiny sliver of his mind wanting more - more of whatever Abigail was giving.

“He’s always been a lucky bastard.” Her eyes welled with tears suddenly. “You’re family, Charles. I love you. And so does John, even though he’s shit at saying so. Please don’t go. At least not like this.”

It was too much. She stretched out her arms to him, and this time he didn’t pull away; he fell into them so suddenly that she staggered slightly under his weight. He buried his face in her bare shoulder; one of her hands came to rest on his head.

Without warning, a sob shuddered through him. Her fingers scratched at his scalp. He began to cry in earnest.

“Stay, Charles. Just for some time longer.”

It’d been so long since he’d cried, he found he didn’t know how to stop. Another sob shook him.

“Stay, stay, stay.” She bounced in time with her words and shushed him a little, like she must’ve done with Jack back when he was little and John was nowhere to be found. There it was again - the leaving.

Charles wrapped his arms around her, hugged her close. He could feel every inch of her body crushed up against him; it should have felt improper, indecent, but it just felt right - like she was being honest and bare, and like he was too. She threw an arm over his shoulder and held him right back.

So little had gone right for him since burying Arthur - with the Indians, riding on his own, the fighting ring. So little had ever gone right for him.

“I meant well, Abigail.” His own voice sounded strange to him, weak and breathless as it was. She shuddered under him.

“You did well.”

They stood like that for a minute or so more, then Charles stood up straight and wiped at his face. She touched his cheek.

“I won’t leave just yet.”

He realized it was true as it came out of his mouth. A bright, cold memory suddenly came to his mind - he and Arthur, hunting deer in the Grizzlies while John laid nearly dead in Colter and the rest of the camp shivered and starved. Charles’d told Arthur then that he was done riding alone.

Maybe this time he really could be done with it.

She smiled and dropped her hand. Charles hadn’t realized how tense his shoulders had been the last few days until he felt them relax in that moment, felt his heart even out its pace and tears trail down his face and drip off his chin.

“And for God’s sake, Charles, stop treating him cold. He’s liable to drive me mad, heartsick as he is.” She grabbed his elbow before he could respond and dragged him out of the barn, back towards their homestead, together.


	13. THE WAY IT IS

Years later, when Charles thought of that night and the next day, he could never quite differentiate the real from pockets of dreams. It all seemed a little suspect - he and Abigail ended up sitting on the porch and watching the sun rise, both dozing off occasionally. They talked about a lot that morning, not all of it having to do with John. All of it felt private, though, and sacred. Eventually, after they gave up on going to bed entirely, Abigail brewed them coffee.

The day would be a wash for work; he and John were supposed to start the silo after their chores, but that would have to wait until the next day, until Charles couldn’t feel the backs of his eyelids every time he blinked.

They laughed quite a bit at poor John's expense, together there on the porch - and both came very close to crying again as well. John had told her the general idea, it seemed, not the specifics. There were secrets Charles still kept from her, and he knew she kept her own as well - from over ten years of marriage to an imperfect man.

“I don’t want to interfere. This kind of thing ain't simple” Charles said it as Abigail woke out of a short nap. The sun was only half-hidden behind the horizon. Morning was almost upon them.

She studied him, then rubbed her eyes. “No, you’re right. It’s not simple.” Her mouth tightened. “‘S a shame you won’t stay here for good, Charles. We could figure it out.”

He smiled at her; he could see that she really meant it. It made him feel warmer. Her eyes slipped closed again.

“You’re too tired to negotiate any longer. Time for bed.”

He stood and helped her up, back aching all the way. He ignored it. They crossed the threshold, and as Charles guided her towards her bedroom, John flew out of the door, nothing on but his union suit, a wild look on his face. When he caught sight of the two of them, his expression calmed, but his brow wrinkled.

Charles enjoyed John’s confusion for a moment and looked down to see Abigail holding back a laugh. They pushed past John, and Charles hugged her before she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

He turned back around to look at John, who was now leaning against the wall and smiling.

“What’s all this about, then?” His voice was groggy with sleep.

“You’re up late, John. The sun's already halfway up in the sky.” It was an exaggeration, but it had its desired effect.

“Usually _my wife_ is there to wake me up.” He emphasized the words, almost as if suspicious, but his eyes were playful.

“You trying to imply something?”

At that, John didn’t just smile, he laughed. It was the warmest they'd been with each other in days; they both took a moment to enjoy it.

“Get dressed, John. Time for chores.”

Charles woke Uncle up while John threw on clothes, and the three of them started with the morning work. It usually took around three hours to get everything at Beecher’s in order for the day; it was just enough time to make it strenuous work, and just enough time to let John stew in his curiosity over the scene that morning.

Periodically, as they crossed in the cow yard or mucked stalls together, Charles would throw him a knowing smile and take his time to enjoy the strained look back he got in return.

By the time they were finished, Charles was ready to curl up on his bedroll and sleep until it was time to do chores again the next morning. His back hurt, and his mind was swimming. But he couldn’t, not yet. He caught John by the arm as they crossed back towards the house and pulled him around the corner of the barn, away from where Uncle or Jack might spot them. They stood about two feet apart and just looked at each other.

“You're starting to look like me, Charles.” John indicated the bags under his own eyes. “What exactly were you doing last night?”

Charles didn’t want to tell him he’d been leaving. He was ashamed of it now, ashamed that he’d wanted to escape rather than face him. He also didn't want to give John another thing to worry over. So Charles just looked at him. John frowned and narrowed his eyes.

“Well, you’re doin’ a fine job of torturin’ me, if that’s what you’re after. I supposed Abigail taught you that trick.”

Charles let himself smile. Then, slowly, raised a hand and traced along John’s jaw with a finger.

“I was thinking.”

John’s face looked too calm, like maybe he was trying not to get his hopes up.

“My back’s been aching something terrible. I was thinking maybe I should get a bed here. You know, so I don’t have to sleep on the floor any more.”

John started to protest, “Charles, you always said -”

Charles drew his hand back from John’s face and held it up, signaling for him to stop.

“I know. But now I’m sayin’ I want a bed.”

John studied him. He looked like he was doing math in his head. John swallowed.

“Charlie.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna stay here?”

John’s face was still passive, and this time, Charles could tell for sure that John was trying to hold himself back, to keep calm. It made Charles hurt, deep in his stomach, that he’d made John so guarded and scared. He’d have to make it up to him, somehow.

He reached up again and rested his hand on John’s shoulder.

“I like what you got here, John. I didn’t think I’d ever understand this sorta life, or the people who live it.” John’s eyes watched him with a desperate sort of intensity. “I do now. It’s still your life, though, not mine. I can’t stay forever.”

John’s eyes closed.

“But I want to stay for now. If you’ll let me.”

A smile flitted on John’s face, then disappeared again.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke with his eyes still shut.

“What for?”

“I been unsure what to do since they came back.” His eyes opened and found Charles’ again. “I shouldn’t have told her without askin’ you.”

Charles shook his head. “We've both been pretty stupid, I’d say.”

John nodded.

“And, I guess -” Charles wet his lips “- I want it to be a decent size. The bed, I mean. I’m a pretty big guy, after all.”

They kissed then, John threading his hands through Charles’ hair, Charles wrapping his hands low around John’s waist. Charles had worried a bit that morning that it wouldn't be like it was before, but it was immediately easy, as easy as it had been in Ambarino, on the run from bounty hunters and painful memories. They moved at an unhurried pace; John pushed Charles slowly against the wall, and they both let out small sighs. It had been too long.

Abigail didn’t look for them that day, and she made sure no one else did either. They were alone, and they were unaware.

Unaware that Sadie would show up any day now with news of Micah Bell; unaware that Abigail’d missed her bleeding the week before; unaware that life was moving on and on around them, constant and sad and sweet.

They found a spot a few miles away, hidden by trees and cooled by a friendly, early autumn breeze. Charles napped on John's chest. They talked about Jack, and Abi, and Arthur, and all things good in the world. And for the first time in his life, Charles spent a day, unworried about his future and unencumbered by his past - at peace, with where he was and who he was. 

All in all, it was a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this to the end! I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
